


Not Your Kind of Business

by Wildgoosery



Category: Newsies
Genre: M/M, Yuletide, Yuletide 2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 19:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wildgoosery/pseuds/Wildgoosery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His father's accident changed most things. Jack changed everything else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Your Kind of Business

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evagalli](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=evagalli).



> Many thanks to Clio for reading this over, and for her efforts to help me attain something resembling historical accuracy.

Growing up, David had never spent much time on the tenement stairs, a rusted metal mess out under the open sky. The few spare hours he could scrounge between school and chores were devoted to books and studies, which his own bed was far better suited for. He didn't even like to have the window open when he could avoid it -- the noise of the street below was too distracting, and the wind snatched the pages from his hands.

David had always kept his own affairs in order, always did what was expected of him -- top of his class, never in trouble, the favorite of every adult he knew. He was the kind of boy who helped his mother with the laundry and spent his pocket money on sweets for his little brother. His teacher had taken him aside, one day, and pressed a pamphlet from the University of Iowa into his hand. His future had seemed bright and certain, then. He'd sit behind a desk with a suit and a salary, and his hands would never look like his father's, skin cracked and fingernails stained with grease. He wouldn't live the life his parents had.

The accident had changed most things. David had put his schoolbooks away -- as had Les, who'd insisted he could read as well as he needed to -- and they'd started their new lives as breadwinners. Their father forbid them to go back to the factory in his place, which hadn't left them with much to choose from. They needed money to keep the landlord and their hunger at bay, and needed it quickly, before their meager savings were gone. At least a newsie ran his own life, made his own fortune.

Then he'd met Jack. And Jack had changed everything else.

In the year since the strike had ended, David's life had found a new rhythm. Jack still lived in the newsie boarding house, but most days he walked David home, sometimes staying for dinner but usually not. Sarah never said anything, but she didn't mention Jack anymore, and excused herself from the table when he stretched desert out too long. David suspected their mother knew more than he did -- though polite as ever, her tone was sharp around the edges when she offered Jack a second helping of soup.

Tonight, he'd lured Jack upstairs with the promise of stew for dinner -- _real_ stew, with meat and carrots and potatoes -- an indulgence brought on by a week of excellent headlines. Jack was charming in his strange, disheveled way, which had made dinner less awkward than it could have been. While Sarah never met Jack's eyes anymore, she had nonetheless smiled at all his jokes, and had shaken her head affectionately when he turned the conversation toward the new Wild West show in town.

The night was cool but not cold, and after dinner David had followed Jack out onto the stairs, which was where they spent most of their evenings together. Now he sat and watched Jack light another cigarette, one of the Duke of Durhams he sometimes took instead of pennies for his papers. Jack's hand glowed red as he cupped it around the flickering light of a match. He took a long, lazy drag, held it, then blew it out through his nose in twin clouds of smoke.

"That's a nice family you got there," he said. "Nice folks."

"Guess so."

"You're a lucky guy, Davy."

"They could've been your folks, too," said David, only half-teasing.

Jack snorted and took another drag. "I don't think so," he said, smoke curling from his lips as he spoke. "That ain't the way it works for me, y'know?"

"She still likes you."

"She likes some things about me," said Jack. "Some others, she don't like so much."

"Whatever, Kelly." David laughed, thinking of the strangled look Jack got when someone pinned him down for too long. "If you don't want to marry my sister, that's fine. You don't have to make up excuses."

Jack shrugged a little, pulled another lungful of smoke and leaned back against the tenement wall. "I shouldn't stay too long," he said, as if their previous conversation hadn't happened. "I got some business over in Brooklyn tonight. Stuff to take care of."

David looked back over his shoulder, to the clock that hung in the kitchen. "It's not that late," he said. "I could go with you, if you want. Keep you company."

Jack snorted again, this time rolling his eyes as well. "You ain't walking back from Brooklyn on your own, kid."

David bristled a little at that. Jack was as dodgy about his age as he was about the rest of his strange history, but he couldn't be more than a year older. Probably less, which was just insulting. "I can wait until you're done. You have to go back to the boarding house eventually, right? That's not so far from here."

Jack chuckled and tapped the ash from his cigarette. "I don't think it's your kinda business."

"What, are you having a spitting contest with Spot or something?"

Jack's laughter was startlingly loud this time, echoing down the almost-empty street. "Yeah, you could say that," he said.

David scowled. He was missing some joke in all this, probably at his expense. "I know you think I'm some kind of priss," he said, "but I can handle a little saliva. Especially if it's not on my hand."

"Sometimes it ends up there," said Jack, mostly to himself. He stubbed the butt of his cigarette out on the wall. "Look, Davy. Take my word for it, okay? Stay here. Keep that nice sister of yours company."

"I'm not some wet blanket that's gonna ruin your fun." David knew he sounded sullen, but he didn't care. Jack had been ditching him like this more and more, lately, leaving him to lie in bed with a book he wasn't really reading, wondering what Jack didn't think he was man enough to handle.

Jack ran a hand back through his overlong hair, grinning up at the sky. "You're a nosey bastard," he said.

"You don't usually keep secrets from me," said David. "Not about stuff like this."

Jack pursed his lips, considering. "That's true," he said. He pulled another cigarette from his pocket and rolled it between his fingers. "You're not gonna like it."

"I'll live."

"Probably," Jack agreed. He looked back over at David, sizing him up. "What the hell," he said.

Jack closed the distance between them in one smooth, fluid movement, old paint crumbling off the stairs as his weight shifted. Then he pressed his mouth to David's, his upper lip itchy with stubble, tongue flickering out for the barest moment before he pulled away.

David stared at him, unable to think of anything to say. Jack laughed again, his smile a little rueful. "Hey, like I said. Not your kind of business." He slid the new cigarette between his lips, patting down his pockets in search of a match. David watched in lightheaded silence as he found one, dragged it across the bricks and cupped his hand around the flame. The cigarette lit, he caught David's eyes again, grinning around it. "You should listen to me, kid."

He pushed himself up to this feet and dusted the paint chips off his trousers. "See you around," he said. He jogged down the steps, jumping the last flight, then whistled some cheerful ditty of Medda's as he walked down the empty sidewalk.

David watched him, open-mouthed, until he was out of sight.

  



End file.
